


The Witch and The Warden

by FandomN00b



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (please see chapter notes for specifics), Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, having some fun, i just think they're neat, maybe developing some feelings or something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25975717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomN00b/pseuds/FandomN00b
Summary: She's the Witch of the Wilds, a dangerous, conniving apostate, rumored to have been responsible for the disappearance of the Hero of Ferelden and the mother to a half-demon spawn. He's a gruff, gloomy, so-called Warden, hidingsomethingbehind that mangy beard of his.(*whispers* ...can I make it anymore obvious?)
Relationships: Morrigan/Blackwall
Comments: 46
Kudos: 25





	1. Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> I was just thinking..."Morrigan and Blackwall might be fun/cursed?"...and couldn't find anything for them! So I rolled up my sleeves and started mashing some keys and...I...I really like them, you guys.
> 
> Oh, and here's something to ponder as you read:
> 
> _No beast is more beloved by Dirthamen than the bear. When the world was new, Dirthamen gave one secret to each creature to keep. The foxes traded their secrets to Andruil for wings. The hares shouted theirs to the treetops. The birds sold theirs for gold and silver. Only the bears kept Dirthamen's gift, deep within their dens, they slept the months away in the company of their secrets and nothing else._
> 
> _When Dirthamen discovered what had been done with his gifts, he snatched the wings from the foxes, silenced the voices of the hares, and turned the birds into paupers. But the bears he honored for their steadfastness._
> 
> Transcribed from a Dalish tale, 9:8 Dragon. ([Dragon Age Origins Codex entry: Bear](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Bear))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan and Blackwall meet at the Winter Palace and learn that first impressions can be a little misleading, even when you think you've seen it all. _Especially_ , then, in fact.

“Well, well...what have we --”

Blackwall moves surprisingly fast, instinctively placing himself between the Inquisitor and the woman descending the stairs toward them. He may not have his shield, but his bulky stance serves as protection enough, should she dare to attempt some kind of attack.

“Care to dance, m’lady?” he grunts as he extends a hand up to her.

He had seen her eyeing the Inquisitor from the balcony. “Witch of the Wilds” he’d heard people whispering, as he and the other members of the Inquisition had helped maneuver the Inquisitor hastily around the outskirts of the dance floor, trying hard not to be noticed _or_ missed. In their rush to search the next area of the Winter Palace for the evidence Leliana had sent them on a wild halla hunt for, he’d still managed to piece it together that she’d scandalously insinuated herself into Celene’s confidence with her knowledge of ancient elf magic.

“Ohhh…?” Morrigan stammers, taken aback by this defensive posturing. She doesn’t know what to make of this gruff-looking man who has interrupted her carefully-timed introduction as he stands there, arm outstretched toward her, as much a threat as an invitation. 

He is wearing the same tacky uniform that all of the Inquisitor’s entourage have worn to the Winter Palace -- disappointing but probably something Leliana imagined would fly in the face of Orlesian expectations -- and she knows he’s only asking in order to give the Inquisitor a chance to escape, but she has half a mind to call his bluff and let him try to maneuver his own way out of this act.

Because he is _surely_ not a dancer. He looks, instead, like he belongs in a cabin in the woods. With an ax or some other barbaric instrument of survival. He is a few inches shorter than she is, and stout, almost dwarf-shaped with his overly-broad shoulders and muscular arms ending in the large, thick fingers he half-beckons her down the stairs with. And that _beard_...Morrigan cannot bear to imagine the smell, or the feel of it accidentally brushing against any part of her if they actually _were_ to dance.

She tries to smile politely, but it ends up looking far more like a sneer. “I was about to ask the Inquisitor if we might be able to have a little chat. In _private_ quarters...”

“Afraid that’s not gonna happen. The Inquisitor is a little busy at the moment…” 

He looks back toward the Inquisitor who is looking frantically between them, as though waiting for permission to flee this increasingly awkward encounter. Blackwall gives them a nod toward the servants’ quarters and they head hastily in that direction, with Sera and Bull trailing not far behind from opposite corners of the parlor, attempting to seem somewhat inconspicuous.

Morrigan smirks at the sight of them. A hulking qunari and an unusually tall elf will surely have a hard time blending in no matter where they are headed and how skilled they are. Then again, they don’t _really_ need to blend in to be effective tonight, she supposes, if Briala is to achieve her aims.

Blackwall catches on immediately to her sentiment, but chooses to play ignorant. "What's so funny?"

“The Palace is crawling with unwelcome guests,” Morrigan drawls, sounding bored. “I have just found and killed one of them myself, in fact...an agent from Tevinter.”

“A 'Vint, eh?" He finally pulls his arm out of her way, and his fingers travel instinctively up to his beard. 

Morrigan watches him comb through it with mild disgust.

“I’ll be sure to let our people know,” he hums.

"Hmmm...yes...please do. Though I imagine your Inquisitor will have to deal with more than a single assassin this evening."

He nods curtly, a bit of obligatory gratitude for the warning, she supposes, not that _he_ seems particularly surprised, then he turns toward the servants’ quarters himself to head after his companions.

"What about that dance?" she asks, sounding a bit more eager than she had intended.

He freezes, then slowly turns back to face her. "Er, _well_ …"

He looks her over again, more thoroughly this time, noting the way she’s scorned the latest pastel trend for a darker, more macabre look. It’s witchy, to be sure, but also skillfully-executed, very nearly _refined_. Maybe even a tad bit self-conscious, though he doesn’t imagine she is the type to feel shame very often. Not with the way she lifts her chin at him as he takes his time trying to make sense of _her_.

Nah. She seems to enjoy this attention, or she’d have let him go by now. She allows his gaze to wander up her bodice that looks more like armor than fine tailoring, though it is certainly that, too. And she smirks with self-satisfaction when his eyes linger a fraction of a second too long on her chest as he makes his way up to her face, before crossing her arms in front of her and impatiently shifting her weight to one hip. By now, he’s forgotten what he was meant to be deciding about her. He _is_ a bit rusty, it turns out, at these sorts of things.

"I see…” She lets out an unimpressed sigh. “Wouldn't want to be seen dancing with the Empress' Arcane Advisor? Or is it that I am an apostate? And I daresay a fairly _infamous_ one at that..." 

She is obviously just bragging now, and he _knows_ he should follow after the Inquisitor, to help them navigate all the physical and social perils of this place, near enough to his old stomping grounds that if he can be of _any_ help, it’s here. Maker only knows what kind of trouble they’re headed into. But the part of him that could’ve been a chevalier once can’t seem to walk away from such a challenge. 

"Nah. Just didn't know witches could waltz."

"And I didn't realize men like _you_ were capable of much else beyond swinging big swords around." 

“Mine may not be the _biggest_ sword, but I assure you, m’lady, I know what to do with it.”

He winks and Morrigan snorts. She’ll give him that one. She led him right to it, after all.

He takes the advantage he’s finally been able to gain to get in another strike. "I guess I just took you for more of a 'dancing naked in the woods with demons' kinda lass."

"Now _that_ is a harmful stereotype.” She grins. “Though I admit I _will_ relish removing this ridiculous gown later..."

"Well, then.” He clears his throat, buying some time for a retort. Neither one of them seem to be playing by any sort of _decent_ rules anymore.

He’s not stupid. He knows what this is about; she has already said she wishes to get close to the Inquisitor. And he knows he shouldn’t be playing such games -- with a witch, no less -- but he can’t help it. Being here, surrounded by all the Orlesian excess and with so many reminders about who he used to be...still _is_ when he looks past the beard and the name he’s tried to honor in its theft...has put him in a _mood_. 

Might as well just get it over with and lay out his hand. “Will you allow me the pleasure of a dance while you’re still fully clothed?”

Morrigan smiles curiously as she places her hand in his and he pulls her the rest of the way down the stairs and back toward the ballroom. She is determined not to be the first to fold in this bluffing match, but even _she_ has to admit that she is surprised he’s taking it this far. 

The music has already begun, the end of the intro signalling that the dancers ought to have already found their partners, and Morrigan is so out of her element that she can’t even think of a snide comment to make as he places a hand firmly on her back, pulling her long lean torso tightly up against his girth. He lifts her other hand up beside them with a more delicate strength and slides a foot along the floor beneath her dress as she frantically spreads her own feet apart enough to make room. 

“Follow my lead, Witch…” he chuffs impatiently, pushing her whole body forward, trapped against him, when the first official downbeat hits. 

_Shit._ Morrigan has miscalculated entirely. This grizzly old lout apparently _actually_ knows how to do this. And _she_ decidedly does not. But it’s too late to retreat now. She has no choice but to do exactly as he says or risk all kinds of attention that would thoroughly derail her plans for the evening. 

So she clings to him, grasping onto his shoulder with her other hand, her fingernails digging into him like a cat trying desperately to claw its way out of a bath, and she hopes that he has enough expertise to carry them both. Or at least to keep them from bumping into any of the other dancers and creating too big a spectacle.

After her initial panic has begun to wear off a little, and he feels her relaxing into the push and the pull of it, he leans forward slightly and whispers, “Don’t forget to breathe.” 

But then his beard caresses her collarbone, just as she had feared it would, when she forgets to lean away from him because she’s been concentrating so hard on not stepping on his feet through the down-up-ups and the dizzying half circles he has been leading her through.

That’s when she realizes she has been allocating her attention all wrong, and stamps her heel down on his toe, not even trying to make it look like an accident.

“Thank you for the reminder,” she deadpans. “I would most certainly have suffocated otherwise.”

“So I take your breath away, eh?” He beams, and she steps on his other foot. Harder this time.

“You can stomp away, m’lady. The boots are reinforced.”

“Against magic?” She grins, and he feels her fingers twitching at his shoulder and a twinge of energy welling up under the arch of his leading foot.

Before she can finish her spell, he sweeps his other foot under hers, breaking her concentration and knocking her off-balance into the arm he has braced against her back. He sweeps his leading arm, still clutching her other hand, up over her head, dipping her in perfect timing with a sudden swell in the music.

“You are fortunate I can control my magic…” she mutters, through gritted teeth, hanging nearly upside-down and utterly helpless. “'Twould be a pity if you had suddenly found your entire foot frozen or on fire or…” He brings her slowly back upright as the music continues with its incessant three-quarter rhythm. “...sent to the _Fade_.”

“Do witches twirl?” His grey eyes are twinkling up at her from under those bushy protruding brows, and she realizes that in order to have noticed, she is far closer than she ever intended to be to this man.

“No.” She shakes her head, panic widening her pupils once again as he lifts up her hand and she feels his fingers grip the small of her back in preparation. “Absolutely n--”

Before she can even finish the word, he has spun her around like a top, revealing the fullness of her fancy gown in all its dark splendor as the rest of the ballroom blooms out in pastel pinks and yellows and blues.

...

“Josephine! Look…” Leliana waves her over to the balcony to look down at the dance floor below.

“Is _that_ Warden Blackwall?”

She nods. “ _He’s_ quite good…” There’s an almost ponderous tone to her assertion that Josephine knows she ought to ask her more about, but before she can, Cullen comes stomping over to them from the other end of the balcony.

“Maker’s breath!” he huffs. “How much longer do we have to be here?”

“Oh, hush…it’s not so bad!” Leliana grabs his arm and pulls him over toward the railing. The brief glimpse of the curious Spymaster is gone, and now all that seems to remain is the gossipy, giggly Orlesian girl who can barely contain her giddiness. “Come see who Blackwall is dancing with!”

“Wait, is _that_ …?”

"Mmhmm…” Leliana hums.

“Did you know she’d be here?”

Leliana turns to him, grinning wide. _Of course_ she knew. “I've already invited her to join us. She was _supposed_ to be speaking with the Inquisitor, but she seems to have gotten a bit swept up by our _Warden’s_ dancing skills."

"You... _what_? Shouldn't we have...discussed this? With the Inquisitor? Beforehand?!"

"She has valuable knowledge and skills that could be helpful to our cause. Plus, under all that dark plumage and burgundy and scowling, she is actually quite... _sweet_.”

“ _Yes_...I’m sure she is…” Cullen’s interactions with the witch had been brief during the Blight, when she had helped the Hero of Ferelden restore order in the Circle. Not his own best time, to be sure. But ‘sweet’ is not a word _he_ would have ever used to describe her.

“Oh, you should see her as a bear!” Leliana laughs. "So soft and cuddly!"

"But should we really be recruiting _more_ apostates?"

Leliana ignores him and Cullen looks over to Josephine for support, but she is staring wistfully down at the ballroom below where Blackwall and Morrigan are finishing up their waltz.

If he had any idea how to dance, he might ask her, he thinks. The next one, perhaps...if only to get away from the courtiers who have been harassing him non-stop to dance with them since they arrived. But he's almost certain he would end up making a fool of himself, and her, and the entire Inquisition...

At the sound of the first bell announcing the next phase of the ball, she turns around and catches him staring at the back of her head before his eyes flicker across her face and then he turns and stomps back off toward the agreed-upon rendezvous point with the Inquisitor, trying awkwardly to hide his blush from her and Leliana both as he goes.

…

The waltz ends and Blackwall releases Morrigan almost as abruptly as they’d begun.

"You have proven your point, I suppose,” she grumbles after she’s taken a moment to regain her _own_ footing. “You do, in fact, seem to be more than just a well-trained bear -- some sort of bipedal creature with _passable_ dancing skills, at least."

Blackwall laughs, a low rumbly chuckle, as he bows to her. "And you have been such a gracious partner. A little clumsy at first, but _teachable_ , maybe, with enough time..."

She glares at him, and for a moment, he wonders if she’s about to put some sort of hex or curse on him. Maybe she already _has_. But another bell chimes, and she sighs, rolling her eyes as she reaches into a hidden pocket in her gown and pulls out a key.

"I _intended_ to give this to the Inquisitor to aid them in their search of the palace...but I trust _you_ will see to it that it might help serve their cause?”

He studies her face for a brief moment, and then seems to make his mind up about something. “We could always use more allies. If you still wish to speak with them yourself, I can probably arrange something...” He glances up to the balcony and gives a little nod to the Spymaster who he realizes has been watching them with great interest.

Morrigan follows his gaze and smiles warmly up at Leliana. “I do not wish to sully your fabled Herald’s reputation with rumors of an occult influence at such a delicate time, but later, perhaps...when matters of fate have begun to reveal themselves here…'twould be most appreciated.”

“Fabled? You’re a skeptic, then, I take it? The Inquisitor _is_ a source of good in this cursed world, whether or not Andraste had anything to do with it. They are honorable, principled, and I’ve yet to find any reason to regret joining them.”

She eyes _him_ skeptically. She looks _almost_ disappointed. "A man your age, with eyes like yours, usually knows better than to believe in heroes."


	2. Untainted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kieran knows...KIERAN KNOWS!

The next morning, after a rich and excessive brunch “in celebration” of the tenuous no-win compromise that had been clumsily orchestrated by the Inquisitor the night before, the Inquisition packs up and prepares to return to Skyhold, with nobody truly certain whether they should be judging the unavailing trip to the Winter Palace a success or a failure. 

From across the bustling plaza, Blackwall sees the witch surveying the half-drunken, half-hungover scrambling about with a disdainful sneer. She stands tall and rigid like a statue, and if he hadn’t bent and spun her around the dance floor himself last night, he might’ve believed her incapable of such pliability without snapping or shattering, like stone, or perhaps, more aptly, ice.

Still, he approaches her cautiously, and clears his throat. "The Spymaster tells me you will be accompanying us back to Skyhold?"

"Hmmm...yes.” Her eyes flick over him, like a horse’s tail shooing flies off its haunches, but the rest of her remains unnervingly still. “It seems I will be joining up with your precious Inquisition, after all.”

“Just wanted to properly introduce myself and extend the welcome. Last night was a little…well…there was a lot going on.”

She looks down at him expectantly for a moment, but says nothing.

He clears his throat. _Again_. “Anyway, I’m Blackwall...Gordon Blackwall, but nobody really calls me Gordon. I’m the Warden-Constable in charge of recruiting for the Order in the East. Taking a bit of time off from that, though, obviously, to help out with the Inquisition.”

“I see.” She murmurs distractedly, her eyes scanning the courtyard again. “I am Morrigan,” she sighs. “If the Spymaster hasn’t already told you _that_ , as well.” 

A boy comes darting from the crowd toward them, his face flush with all the excitement Morrigan seems to lack, not to mention chocolate smudges at the corners of his mouth. She nods fondly toward him, reaching a hand out to catch him and pull him to her side before he can crash clumsily into either one of them. "And this is my son, Kieran."

"Kieran,” he smiles down at him. “Good to meet you, lad!"

"I'm _hardly_ a lad," he scoffs, pushing away from his mother, but the family resemblance is more than obvious as Kieran narrows his eyes up at him.

"Yeah? How old are you?"

"Ten. Well, I _will_ be...in a few weeks."

"My apologies, then...you’re nearly fully grown! Ready to set out on yer own any day now, eh?”

Morrigan rolls her eyes and wanders off to go supervise the Inquisition soldiers who are packing some kind of large mirror into one of the supply wagons for the return trip.

Kieran just stands there, glaring suspiciously at him.

“Well, then…” Blackwall huffs after a few moments of awkward silence between them. “Be seein’ you around, young sir!”

“I’m not a _sir_ , either!” he shouts after him, before running back to bother Leliana for more chocolate.

...

“Mother…”

“What is it, Kieran?”

He nods toward Blackwall, who rides ahead of the wagons with the front line of soldiers as they make their way toward the Imperial Highway. He is the oldest among them by at least a decade, and the soldiers seem to regard him with some degree of respect as he checks in with them one by one, acting as if he were their commanding officer, not some broody Warden, sworn to a life of loneliness and desolation for the Order.

“He called himself a Warden, but _his_ blood doesn’t sing like Father’s used to…”

“What?” 

It is rare that Kieran speaks of his father anymore and she feels like he’s just kicked her in the ribs with the way her heart and her lungs suddenly seize up at the mention of him. It has been nearly five years since they said their farewells and he left them for the Deep Roads, making desperate, empty promises to her and to their son about seeking out the Architect or some other dark, forbidden, probably non-existent knowledge, hoping to find a ‘Cure’ so they could be together again... _some_ day. A day that even Kieran has come to realize will probably never come.

She was heartbroken, of course, but also angry then. Angry that it had happened so soon. Alistair had told them Wardens often lived into their 40s, and they’d been foolish enough to believe him. They had at least hoped he might be able to see Kieran grow up. Anger became bitterness. Bitterness had always come more easily to her, anyway. But bitterness eventually transformed into a kind of softer melancholy...often at the most inconvenient times.

“The voices that _I_ can hear…” Kieran’s voice cuts through the unbidden reverie. “They don't sing through him.”

“I see…” she nods, eyeing the so-called Warden as he maneuvers dutifully back among the Inquisitor’s loyal entourage. “Interesting.”

“Does that mean he isn’t really a -- “

“Shh…” She clasps a hand over his mouth.

“But if he’s -- “

“Just let _me_ worry about that, alright?!” she snaps.

The boy nods his head dutifully. “Yes, Mother...”

She hates the way he says it. It reminds her too much of the way she used to say it in begrudging obedience to Flemeth as a girl. She hates herself even more for what it implies about her parenting.

She turns to him, her face softening into what she hopes is a convincingly sweeter expression and pats him lightly on the leg. “I apologize for being so snippy.”

“It’s okay...”

“No. I should be thanking you for sharing this with me. Not hissing at you to be quiet. Sometimes people have reasons for lying about who they are." She starts to explain. But Kieran already knows this. His own identity, the very nature of his being, is a well-guarded family secret. She shakes her head. "It's just that...until we know his reason, why he wishes the Inquisition to believe him a Warden, ‘twould be prudent, I think, to keep this to ourselves.”

“It’s not like I was going to go blab about it to anyone. I’m not a gossip like those people in Orlais,” he mutters.

Morrigan smiles proudly at her son, and he beams back at her and she can’t help but be reminded of his father, and how _he_ loved to gossip. They would never have survived Orlais if Darrian had been there with them. Or perhaps they would have thrived. She gets a hint of mischief in her eyes to chase the melancholy away. “Not even to _Leliana_?”

Kieran blushes. Then he grins mischievously back at her. “How much chocolate do you think she’d give me if I did?”

“Not as much as _I_ will give you if you don’t!” Morrigan pulls him into a hug at her side and ruffles his hair.

“Okay...okay!” he giggles, loud enough to attract some attention, especially when Morrigan’s fingers move to tickle the back of his neck. A few people turn to see the Witch of the Wilds torturing her son, Leliana and Blackwall among them, and Kieran tries to compose himself.

“ _Mother_ …” he huffs. And this time, the familiarity in his tone makes her smile.


	3. Joining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall begins to ~~wonder~~ panic about the Witch's intentions and what it means for his time with the Inquisition.

As they travel back to Skyhold and begin to settle into the mountain fortress, Morrigan spends a few days watching Blackwall carefully from a distance, trying to figure out what she can about him from their limited interactions.

He appears to have some kind of need or compulsion to make himself useful. To the Inquisitor in all of their misguided nonsensical pursuits for world peace and power...it’s often difficult to discern which goal their actions truly serve. And to the Ambassador as she tries to sort out the messes they make. To the Commander, whose troops he seems to delight in working with when the _former_ Templar is too busy, or too weak in his withdrawal, Morrigan suspects, to run the training exercises himself. To the Horsemaster, whom he insists on helping, even when it’s shovelling manure out of the stables, as some kind of repayment for allowing him to sleep in the drafty hay loft above the beasts. To anyone, really, who can give him some task or purpose, no matter how small or menial. The only person he doesn’t seem to pester for work is Leliana, and Morrigan thinks she knows why.

He tries once to offer his assistance to her as she is struggling to carry a heavy crate packed full of her precious belongings across the courtyard. She has set herself and Kieran up in quarters overlooking Skyhold’s gardens, as far from his smelly haunt as they can manage to get.

“Allow me to carry that, m’lady…” He hurries up alongside her, leaving his shit shovel to rest against the side of the barn.

“That will not be necessary, Warden.” She tries not to over-emphasize his false title, though the temptation to toy with him is strong. But she is not yet ready to reveal what she knows. She still remembers her surprise lesson in over-calling his bluff from the Winter Palace.

He reaches for the crate, and she turns away from him, shifting the weight of it to her hip, and moving just out of his reach as he loses his balance a bit and ends up leaning closer to her than he had intended.

He backs away, but not before grazing her elbow with his hand. It is warm and rough with callouses and she is briefly reminded of the way it led her surprisingly well around the dancefloor, deceptively-competent, and only _slightly_ over-confident.

“I’ll be careful with your witchy trinkets, lass, I promise.”

Perhaps he _had_ anticipated this little game of keep-away…but all Morrigan can really think about is the fact that he has just been shoveling horseshit.

She blows a chunk of hair out of her face, looking as obstinate as ever. “These are no mere _trinkets_ , I assure you.” Even though they are. Mostly costume jewelry and sentimental objects she can never seem to part with in spite of the fact that they have no real magical power nor arcane significance.

“No? Well, I’ll be _extra_ careful, then.” He winks, those clear blue-gray eyes twinkling at her through all that facial hair again.

She can’t decide if she hates him for being such a shameless flirt, or if she wants to play along, never one to be outdone in wickedness, but she knows she can’t be expected to engage in witty banter while carrying the heavy crate. She sets it down with a huff and steps between it and him just as he stoops down to pick it up. He is left bent over, staring up at her, as she looms over him with her hands on her hips, and he grins. He fucking _grins_.

It is all too much. His hand, his eyes, his shit-eating smile as he stares up at her, his face level with her waist.

“Tell me, _Warden_ …how did you find the Joining?”

He freezes. And Morrigan feels a little bit bad for being unable to resist such an easy opportunity to make him squirm. Well, she _would_ feel bad. If it wasn’t her intention to do exactly that. To shock him out of this insistent helpfulness.

“Er...well...it was all a long time ago…” His grin has vanished, and his eyes have stopped twinkling at her as he frantically searches for an answer somewhere in the dirt below. “Unpleasant business, that…would rather not relive it in the telling.”

“Oh. I imagine so. But as a...Warden- _Constable_ , did you say you were?”

“Yes…” He stands up, meeting her eyes again with a carefully-practiced solemnity, the crate of her belongings forgotten in his effort to seem convincingly dutiful to an Order he doesn’t actually belong to.

“Well, then you must have to put all your recruits through the ritual. That must be...difficult, then. For you…and certainly for them, as well.”

“I...yes. Well, it’s not to be taken lightly, that’s for sure.”

“Hmmm…” Morrigan is satisfied with the way she has managed to put him on edge for now. She considers this a minor victory. No need to go pushing him all the way to a confession until she has had a chance to figure out more precisely _why_ he is lying. She has at least learned that he doesn’t seem to know much at all about the Order he claims to be a part of, or he might’ve gone on at length about Darkspawn blood or the Taint or _something_ to try and impress her. He certainly seems eager to do _that_ , at least...

She turns and bends down in front of him, hoisting her crate up to her other hip with a satisfied little grunt. Then she nods back to him, trying not to look so smug, and he barely remembers to mumble a “Good day, m’lady” at her back as she continues across the courtyard, swaying far more gracefully now, in spite of the weight she is carrying, than she had during the entirety of their waltz at the Winter Palace.

“So...the Witch of the Wilds, huh?” 

“Huh?” Blackwall turns, shaking himself out of the daze she’s left him in, and he sees Bull standing behind him, watching her saunter away with a knowing smirk. 

“Even _I’m_ not gonna try and get any closer to that,” he laughs.

“What makes you think she even likes _your_ type?” Sera ducks out from behind him. "She and the _Spymaster_ seem pretty close..." 

How long have they been watching? Blackwall wonders. He really hopes they didn't see him seize up when she mentioned the Joining. Bull has always seemed suspicious of his 'commitment' to the Order, and Sera, well...who knows _what_ Sera thinks of it. 

“What makes you think I meant anything other than polite conversation?” Bull huffs, pretending to look offended. 

“It's almost always implied…” Blackwall mutters disapprovingly. 

"And who says she can't like more than one 'type?'”

Sera makes a V with her fingers and sticks her tongue through it at Bull and the two of them erupt into laughter.

“Is this honestly all you two _ever_ talk about?”

Sera and Bull exchange an exaggerated look of surprised indignation, daring the other to break first. It ends in a tie with both of them howling again.

Once she catches her breath, Sera points a finger accusingly at Blackwall. “Since when are _you_ such a spoilsport?” she asks. “You sound just like Sol _arse_ …”

“Ever since he danced with the Witch in Orlais, seems like. Still can’t believe you ditched us for a waltz, Old Man!” 

“She must’ve cast some kinda witchy spell on him. Got yer bits all twisted up?”

Blackwall grumbles some kind of response as Bull nods almost pityingly at him. He’s not in the mood for this. He needs to figure out what the Witch knows and what she and the Spymaster might possibly be able to figure out together, assuming they haven’t already on their own. Not that there’s much he can do about it, short of disappearing before _someone_ puts the pieces together. What _was_ he thinking about, joining up with such a movement? Morrigan was right to call him out for being naive about his place in the Inquisition, in _this_ regard, at least. His joining _will_ ultimately be temporary, whether by his own self-removal, or someone else’s discovery of his _other_ fraudulent Joining.

“Come on, Warden...let’s see if some ale and a pretty girl can’t flush out _whatever_ she’s cursed you with. I’ve had my eye on the new redhead, but she seems more into the brooding, beardy type.”

He goes with them begrudgingly, hoping his friends might be right, and that he’ll be able to shake the paranoia brought on by Morrigan’s unexpected question. But even after a few rounds, and the barmaid’s best efforts at climbing into his lap -- due, no doubt, to the extra coin Bull keeps slipping her with increasingly obvious winks and nods -- he isn’t feeling any more at ease about it. He stares into his ale, pretending he doesn’t see her disappointed pouting and the way her tits bounce away in consternation. 

None of that can make him forget the way Morrigan’s eyebrow had arched up as she gazed down at him, the way her lips twitched into that smug little grin of superiority, and how her hips switched back and forth afterwards like she _knew_ she’d just put the fear of the Maker into him. 

She knows...he’s certain of it. But if she _knows_ , why not come out and say so? What is she playing at? The skittish moggie who’d clung to him at the Winter Palace when he’d whisked her out of her comfort zone certainly had claws, he never doubted it. But maybe he is just some mouse for her to toy with? Or a _rat_ , more like…

Sera eventually gets bored and leaves them, pretending she’s just seen someone she’s been meaning to talk to. But Bull seems to find Blackwall’s somber mood rather fascinating. Just what he needs...someone else to hide from. At least he trusts the Qunari will be direct with him when _he_ figures out that he’s an imposter.

“Don’t let me keep you from enjoying the rest of your evening,” he mutters, as Bull leans back, eyeing him inquisitively. “I’m sure your men are better drinking company.”

“Who? Them?” Bull nods over to the Chargers and lifts his mug high into the air as enthusiastic shouts answer the gesture from across the tavern. “Nah. They’re sick of me.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“ _You_ just look like you’re determined to be miserable,” Bull smiles. “And it’s got nothing to do with _me_.”

Blackwall at least snorts at that. “Just...been thinking, I guess.”

“About…?”

He knows he can’t lie to Bull. “Choices.” But he can certainly try to _evade_ his prying, and hope that the Qunari’s respect for personal boundaries will deter him from asking too many questions.

“Ah, yes. Bas ‘ _freedom_ ’...” Bull chuckles. “Too many decisions to make, eh? Still having regrets about that crazy shit out West with your fellow Wardens? It sucks to see people you know like that...”

Well, shit-balls. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Bull might just care about his emotional well-being. As a _friend_. A lying, no-good, pretender of a friend, of course, but a friend, nonetheless.

Blackwall hides the bewildered look on his face behind a long final swig of his ale as he tries to think of a response that is both vague and delicate-sounding enough to get Bull to drop it.

“Aye…” he manages, while trying to look and sound appropriately haunted by the thing that should have probably been bothering him for the past month, not the thing he absolutely hopes the expertly-trained spy has zero suspicions about. “ _That_ was a fucking mess.”

“Yeah.” Bull is quiet, no doubt contemplating the way Blackwall’s eyes dart shadily from his face back to his empty mug before he can stop himself. But he graciously allows silence to fall between them, at least.

Blackwall doesn’t look at him again as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out some coins to leave on the bar. Two piles. One to pay his tab and another for the red-headed barmaid he’s been spurning all night. He immediately regrets the gesture, as it seems to remind Bull of what brought them here in the first place.

“What’d that witch say to you, anyway?” Bull asks, as if it’s simply a parting afterthought.

Blackwall feels his heart stutter against his sternum. Nothing Bull does is an afterthought. “What?” He turns back to face him, even though every muscle, every bone, tendon, and whathaveyou in his body is telling him to walk away, to run, even...and just pretend he didn’t hear the question.

“You were doing that whole...gentlemanly thing... _winking_ , even, you flirty bastard -- I saw it! Then, allofasudden, I watched you turn to stone. All pale, real panicked look in your eyes. What did she say to you to get that kind of reaction?”

Blackwall looks right at him, panic and undeserved betrayal stored-up behind his calm visage, ready to be unleashed when Bull drops the act and tells him what he’s deduced. “I don’t remember exactly what she said. Probably just told me to bugger off or something,” he mutters. “Didn’t want me touching her things, I imagine.”

“Ah…” Bull goes quiet again, and Blackwall tries to prepare himself, to steel his nerves against the hulking man’s keen attentiveness. When Bull opens his mouth back up to speak, Blackwall has to restrain himself from reaching his hand toward where his sword would be, if he hadn’t left it with the smithy for a bit of maintenance upon their return earlier in the day. He _knows_ Bull will be looking for something like _that_ , at the very least.

But instead of another follow-up question, he nods behind him. “Speaking of touching things...” he murmurs.

Blackwall spins around, like a strung bow being released prematurely by some jittery amateur. The barmaid has seen the pile of coins he intends to leave her, and swallowed her wounded pride enough to come back to check on them. She startles backward a bit at the frenzied look in his eyes, the growl that he just barely manages to keep in check.

But he composes himself quickly, clearing his throat and banishing the panic back down into his chest. He nudges the coins toward her with a little apologetic bow of his head. He turns back toward Bull, addressing them both now, though he’s not entirely sure why he feels compelled to do so. “I’m tired. Gonna take my leave for the evening. Thanks for the chat.”

“Yeah. Sure. Fine. Head on up to that loft of yours. Refuse the comfort of a _real_ bed because you ‘like’ waking up with the smell of shit in your nose and hay in your ass crack!” 

“I will. And I’ll have you know that I _do_ ,” he laughs. 

“G’night, Warden!” Bull bellows, as the barmaid wriggles past Blackwall, scooping her coins into the pocket of her apron. 

Between Bull’s generous bribes to keep at it, and Blackwall’s guilt that it didn’t work, she’s made more than a week's worth of what she would’ve made back in Denerim in a matter of hours here. She smiles to herself, but Bull catches it as she looks back up at him and he smiles right back. 

“When is your shift over?” he asks her. “And what’s the likelihood of you letting _me_ serve _you_ for a bit?” 

“That depends..." She gives him a quick look-over. "How good are you and those giant hands of yours at foot rubs? Had me prancing around like a prized pony all night for that old grump.” 

Bull reaches for her right hand with his left, and rubs a deep, slow circle into her palm with the pad of his thumb as he massages and cracks her knuckles from the other side with his index and middle fingers. 

“There’s more where that came from,” he grins, and she looks down and only then notices that he’s missing the tips of the other two fingers. 

“Give me ten minutes, love…” she purrs, pulling away reluctantly to finish collecting the left-behind coin and empties from the other tables. 

She thinks she’s going to like it here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Sorry for the gratuitous Iron Bull content in this chapter.~~ I just started writing him and couldn't stop. I have avoided writing Inquisition companions for far too long, it seems.


	4. Warming Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan has more questions for the Warden. Blackwall has had enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW (finally...gosh!), though, uh, SOMEONE has to go and bring up the Spymaster...

The witch seems to appear from nowhere sometimes and disappear just as quickly when she notices him noticing her noticing him from the ramparts or the gardens or mid-conversation with one of the few people here that she seems to have decided is worthy of her time. 

But this morning, she’s made quite a show of approaching him as he grumbles frustratedly at his latest woodworking project, a crib for one of the Hinterlands refugees who is due to have a baby soon. Once she saw him messing around with two pieces of wood and a hammer, Mother Giselle began offering his services, for free, to the growing population of the fortress. He gets requests almost daily now to construct all manner of things, some within his capabilities, and others which definitely challenge his expertise and skill. This latest commission requires some finesse which he fears he might lack, but he feels compelled to do it, anyway...and to do it perfectly. Which means he has started over now no less than a dozen times and is not at all in the mood for Morrigan’s sneer as she swaggers deliberately into his peripheral vision.

"Leliana filled me in on what happened at Adamant,” she tells him.

"And what’s all of it to you?" he grunts, refusing to even give her a glance.

“I wonder if there might have been some _other_ way to free the Wardens from their own self-destructive foolishness that did not involve such...needless sacrifice."

It’s not really a question, is it? She’s come to criticize him for the misbehavior of the entire Order. At least that means she must consider him to be a part of it...right?

He sets his mallet down with an annoyed thud. “Many good people were lost. That is true.” He finally looks up at her expecting to become even more irritated, but finds, to his surprise, that she’s not really sneering much at all. “But we were able to bring _some_ back to their senses.”

"And the _other_ Warden who was working with the Champion…?"

"Warden-Commander Stroud?"

"Yes. What happened to him?”

"He went north to Weisshaupt with the others, to reconnect with whatever remains of the Order up there."

"And you did not wish to join them?”

“I have...obligations here.”

“Of course.” She nods condescendingly now. “Your noble Inquisitor...the Herald of Andraste.” 

There it is, _finally_...the all-too-familiar contemptuous curl of her dark raspberry lips. 

“And you _must_ feel a certain degree of urgency about recruiting more Wardens to replace those who were lost. For all their eagerness to shed blood for their cause, we will still need them should another Blight arise. And if I recall, it took the Hero of Ferelden a year to recruit a mere _handful_ of new Wardens after the Blight.”

“Ah, yes...knew him, did you?”

Blackwall has also been doing some reconnaissance work of his own. He wouldn’t dare ask Leliana anymore about her, but Josephine was kind (and discreet) enough to tell him what she knew of Morrigan’s somewhat mysterious involvement with the legendary Warden-Commander Tabris. Rumors about him being Kieran’s father and the man’s disappearance around the time she showed up in Orlais and maneuvered herself into Celene’s inner circle.

“Yes.” She gets a strange look in her eyes, one he’s never seen cross her face yet in any of their previous truth or dare sessions. A sort of haunted melancholy. It’s something _he_ happens to know well enough, and for a moment, he feels something close to empathy for the witch. 

But then she reaches for something at her hip under her long velvet cloak. He figures it’s probably a dagger or something, but she stops short of revealing it with a renewed glimmer in her eyes, as if she can sense his sudden unease. And she is amused by it.

“‘Tis strange…”

“ _What’s_ strange?”

“He never once mentioned _you_. Did you ever happen to visit Vigil’s Keep?”

Blackwall is growing a bit tired of all of this. He wants to ask her outright why she insists on playing this game, what she’s after, and when she plans to out him to the Inquisition. But there’s still the slightest possibility that she doesn’t know. At least not the full extent of his crimes.

“I was sent East _after_ he’d disappeared.” It’s a half-hearted lie, really, but he doesn’t have it in him to keep performing for her.

“I _see_.”

Silence falls between them as Morrigan taps her fingers against whatever she’s got hidden under her cloak. It sounds metallic, but hollow. A potion, maybe. Or poison.

“Did you need something?”

“I _did_ , but I seem to have forgotten what…” she sighs, finally pulling her hand away from her hip. 

“Well, then, if you don’t mind…” He motions to the spindles he’s whittled and is trying to fit like pegs into the holes he has drilled into a small rectangular frame. “The lass I’m making this for is due to pop any minute now.” 

“Of course.” She glances over the pile of wood, seeming to realize what it’s meant to be for the first time, and her cheeks darken a bit as a rush of cold wind suddenly blows up from the mountain. 

“I should let you get back to your work, then,” she says. 

She goes quickly, without any of her usual smugness or saunter. When he returns his attention to the crib, he is surprised to find that the pieces suddenly fit together quite easily. 

“Huh.” Probably just the cooler temperature shrinking the wood.

...

“I remembered what it was that I wanted.”

He hears her before he sees her, and then before it even registers that this isn’t some cursed dream fed by his heightened anxiety and depraved mind, she is right beside him, her golden eyes glowing eerily in the scant light of the hay loft.

His first instinct of course is to reach for his sword.

"Put it down,” she commands him, rolling those very same eyes. Proof enough that it is, in fact, her, and not some desire demon come to get him all hot and bothered in his sleep.

"Old habits." He shrugs...only half-apologetically. He sets his sword back down on the floor next to the pile of hay he considers a bed.

"I know a bit about such things."

"You seem to know _a bit_ about most things.” He feels bold tonight for some reason. Bolder, anyway, than he does in the daylight.

“A bit. Yes. But there’s something else I’d like to know a bit _more_ about…”

"No. No more questions, Witch.”

“Oh…’tis a pity,” she clucks. His eyes have adjusted enough that he can see her press her lips together. She is _pouting_ at him.

“What do you _want_?”

"Only to know if your skills as a dancer translate to any _other_ recreational pursuits.”

Blackwall tries not to look flustered as he considers his response to _this_. He hadn’t expected her to be so direct. But she's probably already noticed that his cock twitches every time she is around. Witches _do_ tend to pay attention to such things, or so he’s heard.

"It’s a slightly different skill set, but one I also honed in a past life…" he winces. Is he seriously bragging about this? To _her_?!

“Was this before or after you joined the Order?”

“Before.” He answers, too hastily. “Wardens aren’t allowed to dance _or_ fuck, don’t you know?”

“You really _don’t_ know very many other Wardens, do you?”

Of course he doesn’t. If he did, they’d have recognized immediately that his blood did not carry the Taint. Gordon Blackwall was the first and only Warden he’d ever known.

“And I suppose _you_ do?” he asks defensively, realizing it’s a mistake before the words even finish leaving his mouth.

“Several, in fact, one quite _intimately_ …but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

He feels a sudden foolish urge to demand to know more about her and the Hero of Ferelden, as if her personal history is any business of his. Or like he has some exclusive right to any _actual_ knowledge about the Order. He stands there in silence instead, trying to size her up for...whatever she has in mind.

It’s always so hard to tell with mages -- the bulk of their strength and skill are often hidden under layers of ornamentation and soft fabric. Vivienne wears her considerable power and prestige on the outside so well that few dare to challenge her. Meanwhile, Dorian may be loud and flashy, too, but _his_ pompousness only manages to highlight his vulnerabilities. Solas is...none of that. He goes above and beyond to seem unassuming and unremarkable, but try as he might, even _he_ can’t hide his own self-importance. Which Blackwall has reasoned means he may be the most powerful one of them all. Or at least he believes himself to be. He _is_ a mage, after all.

But Morrigan, this...Witch of the Wilds...she is _still_ a bit of a mystery to him, even after a couple weeks now of careful study. She seems the most _dangerous_ , if only because he can’t quite get a read on her, the way a bomb is dangerous when you have no idea when, or even _if_ , it might go off. She is obviously intelligent and conniving. And she seems to embrace the Chantry’s paranoia about so-called ‘arcane derangement’ with a certain smugness that makes her all the more terrifying. She is a collector of both things and knowledge. Her appearance is often a layered mix-match of styles and trinkets...like a magpie’s nest. A bit of Orlesian inspiration in the fine fabrics and craftsmanship, a hint of Fereldan practicality there in the leathers and furs, and of course, all of it dyed in dark burgundies and greys and blacks with just enough gold and feathers to remind everyone that no Circle has ever dared to tame her. But that necklace...it’s from somewhere else -- another time, perhaps -- entirely. 

Still, he thinks he might be able to take her. He’s seen her dance, after all.

“Wardens _do_ have a reputation, you know...and it has gotten rather cold up here on top of this mountain. I imagine a big hairy lummox such as you might be good for --”

"Listen, Witch, if you want me to fuck you, you're going to have to ask more politely than this."

"And what if _I_ wish to fuck _you_?"

He swallows and she laughs. It's more of a cackle, really, and it sends a fresh crackling wave of desire through him like a lightning bolt, but he says nothing. Just glares at her with a conflicting mixture of want and wariness.

“I see,” she says, her laughter trailing off into a disappointed sigh. “I suppose I have been too bold? I will leave you, then. Please forgive my... _impertinence_.” She turns away from him, heading toward the ladder.

" _No_." His sword hand lashes out, empty this time, and he grabs her arm, pulling her back to him as if he’s just spun her around again in the ballroom of the Winter Palace.

Different skill set, her ass. It is precisely the same sort of back-and-forth, twisting and turning, strategic exploitation of an opponent's movements and the negative space between them that he had excelled at on the dance floor. And she imagines it must make him equally effective in battle. 

Darrian had often scoffed at the well-trained soldiers they encountered in their travels, claiming his own training from Adaia and practice as a young thief was superior for survival to anything anyone could learn from more formal training at a chevalier school or Templar barracks.

But she thinks Blackwall might have been able to give him a run for his money when it came to physical strength and reflexes in a fight. She doesn’t suppose Blackwall was ever a thief like Darrian -- his social refinement peeks through his flimsy disguise too easily for him to have ever had to resort to petty crime for his survival, and he hardly seems the type to engage in that sort of thing for _fun_. But he certainly has the look and feel of someone who has seen some of the more dark and grisly aspects of the world, and survived them...or at least _outrun_ them.

She snaps her head around and glares at him and something flips over in his guts. He knows she could probably eviscerate him with one flash of those piercing dragon's eyes if she wanted to. But she doesn't. Her eyes soften. Just a little. And she gets that unnerving little smile that should signal "danger!" to him, except that he can’t seem to let go of her. 

She twists her arm, breaking his grip on her and grasping _his_ forearm instead. Her former lover _had_ taught her and Kieran both some of his mother’s tricks. And her _own_ mother had taught her how to use peoples’ assumptions about her strength and abilities against them. 

Her fingers curl around him and he feels her nails digging in through his shirtsleeve, waiting for him to be the first to give up in this fight.

But he pulls his arm in, yanks _her_ even closer to his chest. She doesn’t have time to retract her claws and detach herself from him as he lifts his chin, catching her snarling lips between his own.

Her eyes open wide, and there’s a strained noise in the back of her throat as she tries to curse him for this, but then her lips open up and press back hard against his.

Blackwall wraps his free arm around her, splays his fingers wide against the small of her back and pulls her in even tighter against him until she finally releases his arm, and the strangled curses fade into a kind of needy whimper.

“What are you _doing_?” she huffs, when he finally loosens his hold on her and pulls his lips reluctantly away from her.

“It’s called a _kiss_.”

She rolls her eyes. “I mean...why did you _stop_?”

“Why did _you_?”

An arm around the back of his neck pulls him back to her easily enough and she slides her tongue into his mouth this time, tasting of some kind of sweet liquor he can’t quite identify. 

It’s less of a struggle for dominance now than it is a race. Blackwall’s tongue maneuvers around hers, and both of their mouths open wider to make room for the other. Frenzied hands stop fumbling for control of the lead and scrabble inelegantly toward buckles and lacings with little regard for who they belong to.

Not that the race is at all fair, considering that she’s come upon him in only his nightclothes while being fully dressed in several layers herself. He grunts impatiently as he struggles with the various buckles and straps of her skirting until she swats his hands away and frees him up to focus on removing her jacket. Her belts, skirting, and leggings all hit the floor with a clinky thud, and he tries not to think about how many weapons or witchy instruments she must’ve had tucked away in them. She slides his thin cotton leggings down over his hips and plops herself down in front of him on the bed of hay, pulling him with her as his hands work to undo the remaining golden clasps and loosen the silken sash she wears around her waist.

“Are all these really necessary?” he huffs into her ear as he nudges his knee between her legs, and Morrigan snorts, lifting his nightshirt over his broad shoulders.

When he finally gets her down to her underclothes, he stands up and backs away a step to keep his cock from smacking her in the face as they _both_ take a moment to catch their breath. To recalibrate. Neither one of them knows who’s winning at this game anymore, but _she’s_ the one looking up at _him_ for a change, and he can’t say he hates it as her eyes roam greedily over his body, over old scars and thick, well-padded muscles. Her gaze lingers at his chest a bit before following the thicket of hair back down the middle of his trunk, past his navel with an approving hum.

She reaches for his hips, gathering him up between her legs as she leans back into the hay, trying to pull him down on top of her. But he pulls back to watch as a flush begins to travel from her cheeks to her chest, drawing his eyes to take in the sight of her now that she’s nearly naked, save for her necklace and her underwear. Precious trinkets, indeed.

“These are fine undergarments,” he declares, reaching down to palm her cunt through the lace and satin.

She writhes against him, lifting herself up onto her elbows and craning her neck to see him. “They cost a fair bit of coin, I imagine,” she drawls.

“Aye.” Blackwall thinks he might even know who made them, judging by the intricate scalloped pattern of the lace and the unique weave of the satin, but he doesn’t say so. He hooks his index finger under the edge of the lace, pulling it away from her skin, and slides his other hand up along her thigh. “Pilfered them, did you?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I will have you know that they were a _gift_.”

He nods, biting his lip under all that hair as he caresses her, pushing his fingers into her dark curls and eyeing her tits, still trapped under the offensively pretty material, but doing their damndest to get his attention. “Well, _whoever_ got them for you certainly knew what they were looking for.”

“They are from Leliana, if you _must_ know. Would you like me to have her pick _you_ out something in your size as well?”

Blackwall’s meandering hand stills abruptly and his wandering eyes snap up to hers. “The...Spymaster?”

“Yes...” She realizes too late that mentioning this was probably a mistake. She _knows_ that he is utterly _terrified_ of Leliana, and decidedly _not_ in the same tantalizingly sexy way that he seems to be caught somewhere between fear and desire for her.

“What is it?” she asks, feigning impatience and irritation to hide her guilt. Perhaps she can salvage this somehow through their usual teasing. “Do you need assistance removing my underclothes, too?” She nudges his hand with her cunt, but he pulls away from her then, and sits all the way back on his heels. 

She holds her breath as his face begins to twist between fearful confusion and panic. And she actually feels _bad_ for once. For being the one responsible for putting him in this state, at least, and, of course, for spoiling her own plans for the evening.

But why _him_? Why does she care? She could just as easily sink her claws into someone else...with fewer complications to maneuver around. Younger, less baggage, more virile, with fewer secrets, _surely_ …

Is _this_ why she has taken such an interest in him?

He certainly fits the Warden type…a little too well, if she is to be honest. A bit sad, ashamed of some past misdeeds, hoping for some kind of redemption through sacrifice. She had always been a foolish girl, according to Flemeth, when it came to who and what she trusted her heart to, but this? This _does_ seem overly ridiculous.

Ah ha! But this one is different, _Mother_ \-- a liar _and_ a fraud. With what is surely more than just a history of petty theft or bad luck haunting him, or so she has surmised. And since he’s not _actually_ a Warden...

She looks back up at him, her eyes attempting some kind of apology, and the words seem to leave her mouth against her will, a confession pulled from her by his silent suffering as he stares at her like a cornered animal waiting for _her_ to make the next move. “I _know_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise these two WILL eventually bang.


	5. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan comes clean. Or at least tries to. Blackwall comes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (...apologies for the sex pun...but this chapter is definitely NSFW...featuring masturbation and some mild(?) auto-erotic asphyxiation)

_What_ has she just done? Why would she choose such a moment to lay out her entire hand? Flemeth was right. She _is_ a fool. A complete and utter fool.

Blackwall blinks at her. “Beg your pardon?” He is apparently as surprised as she is that she has just come out and admitted it like this. But surely, he is not as dim as he pretends to be. He has at least _suspected_ her of knowing since they arrived at Skyhold and she asked him about the Joining.

Perhaps he is granting her one final opportunity to play it off so they can _both_ pretend she hasn’t said or meant what they both know she said and meant by it. He _is_ clearly interested in sex, at least, and there really is no need to complicate things by being so overly _honest_ about anything, she supposes. They might even be able to proceed tonight, just as soon as his liar’s heart has stopped beating the fight or flight out of him. They could just continue their little game for another day, or week...or more, maybe...

But something within her clenches around that, and to her dismay, she finds that she doesn’t _want_ to keep doing this to the sad old bear. In spite of everything she knows about him, he just seems so earnestly... _good_.

 _Fuck it_. She takes a deep breath. Then another. “I know that you are not the Grey Warden you claim to be,” she says. Clearly, steadily... _carefully_. There is no taking it back now.

“You mean that I am not some great _hero_?” he stammers unconvincingly. Bless him and damn him for trying so hard to keep this up as he sits completely naked and exposed in front of her. He knows she knows and now _she_ knows he knows she knows. “I never claimed to be anything like -- ”

“ _No_.” She can’t bear to hear him try and spin it back to her again. “I _mean_ that I know that your blood is not tainted by the blood of any Archdemon. That you are lying to the Inquisition, which you seem to hold in such high regard. And that you have _something_ that you are running from. Actually, that part makes you more like a Warden than anything else, but I digress…”

Blackwall sits in increasingly worrying silence, a creeping anger beginning to spread across his face to replace the panic that had flashed across it only a few moments earlier. He has every right to be angry with her for toying with him, of course, but surely he has been holding back his own suspicions about _her_ as well? Whatever they are, she would rather get this over with now if there is to be anything more than this teasing and flirtation between them. A big _if_ she realizes as his bushy eyebrows knit together in consternation.

He thinks about killing her. For half of a second, he actually considers it, eyeing his sword on the floor next to them. But to what end, really? It would only be a matter of time before someone else figures it out. Bull? Sera? The Spymaster? Will he kill them all, too? Or would it be worth it to simply kill the witch and try to run? It's a survival instinct...one he truly wishes he no longer had. 

And of course, there’s also the matter of her boy. There’s a chance _he_ knows, too. Josephine had mentioned something about him -- remarkably clever and insightful for a boy his age. Probably half-demon or something. But _whatever_ he is, Blackwall's really not up to adding the orphaning or murder of any _more_ children to his blighted conscience.

She watches him carefully. As if she knows what he's thinking, cycling through his options, talking himself out of grabbing his sword and plunging it right through the center of her satin bustier. But she doesn't seem to fear him. She doesn't seem particularly appalled by him, either.

The fact that she knows he’s not a Warden, and doesn't even seem concerned about the way his thoughts turn immediately to violence as an escape is unnerving to say the least.

And that’s definitely the worst part of all of this. She knows. She _knows_ , and yet she still came here tonight and... _Maker’s balls!_ He should’ve listened to all the parts of him that had told him to keep as far away from the Witch as possible, and ignored the other parts of himself, namely his cock, that just didn’t seem to want to listen.

“I think you should leave,” he finally says, his voice ragged with restraint.

“I assure you I have no intention of -- ”

“Please. Just _go_ ,” he growls more forcefully, pointedly eyeing his sword again and hoping she’ll take the hint.

“Very well.” Morrigan nods, and for a brief moment, she looks... _sorry_. It’s the most humbled he’s ever seen her and it punches at something deep down inside of him to see her looking so dejected. She quickly gathers up her clothes and doesn’t even bother getting dressed. She’s not ashamed. He’s not sure she’s even really capable of it. But she does give him one last haunting look of disappointment before descending the ladder. 

Once she’s out of his immediate view, he finally dares to move again, shifting his position just enough to peer over the edge of the hay loft, to watch her go. But all he sees is the moonlit courtyard and it's empty. He walks over to the ladder, looking down into the darkness of the stables. There’s no sight of her, just the glowing eyes of the horses looking up at him from their stalls below. The witch has simply vanished.

 _Good_ , he tries to tell himself, in spite of how unsettling it all is. It will make it easier to convince himself in the morning that this was all an unfortunate dream.

As he returns to his pile of hay, he nearly trips over something. He stoops down to investigate, and his fingers find the silken waist sash he’d torn off of her a few minutes ago. He holds it up, and it shimmers in the moonlight. He recognizes the material from the gown she was wearing the night they met at the Winter Palace -- a dark iridescent grey with small, embroidered metallic insects dotting it. And it suits her perfectly in its subtly self-aware mockery of those who fancy such things. He has no doubt she designed the fabric and repurposed it herself. And that she probably left it behind intentionally. _Fucking Witch_. Why couldn’t she have just left her underwear for him to huff like a _normal_ lass. But no...of _course_ she leaves something like this...something imbued with...with so much of... _her_.

He brings it to his face, inhaling the lingering scent of her, carefully at first, like sipping poison. There’s that hint of sweet, fermented something again that he can’t seem to place, along with the fresh stinging herbal scent of the demon weed she’s always harvesting and storing away for some nefarious purpose, no doubt. And peppermint oil, cool and frigid, just like her. Without realizing it, he’s begun fondling himself with his other hand, and is dismayed but not at all surprised to find that he’s already hard as a fucking rock.

He takes himself fully into his hand as he buries his face further into the sash, pressing it against his mouth and his nose, and he starts jerking off in earnest. Maybe it'll get her out of his head and he'll still be able to get some Maker-forsaken sleep tonight.

He thinks of her tits bound up in that ridiculous lingerie, and begins tugging more urgently on the head of his cock. Then he thinks of her cunt all wet and warm with desire for him underneath the pretty satin and lace and he imagines himself sliding in and out of it as he spreads pre-cum up and down his shaft with a pitiable moan. He can feel his balls tightening up already, preparing for a good release as he swells and bucks into his hand at the thought of her moaning for more of him.

As he struggles to breathe through the tightly-woven silk, he tries _not_ to think of her eyes, golden orbs seeing right through him and searing themselves into his soul...but well, _shit_.

Those eyes flash into his consciousness and his hand stutters to a halt. He gasps into the sash he’s still holding against his face as shame and guilt bloom through every part of him at this depravity that the witch has inspired in him, but he can’t stop himself from coming in stunted erratic spurts.

It’s probably the least satisfying wank he’s had in awhile. And that’s saying something.

He thinks about trying again, maybe imagining Bull and the redheaded barmaid he’s probably fucking tonight instead, but he’s too drained to try and conjure up _those_ images. So he wipes himself off with the sash, tossing it into some dark corner of the loft to come back and haunt him later, or at least for the next time he needs to get off on his own self-loathing, and then he tries to fall asleep.

...

Morrigan launches herself from the wooden beam with a nearly silent flap of her wings. She needs to get some distance, some height, some _perspective_. And there is nothing quite like a midnight flight to clear her head. She catches a rising air current and rides it up over the Frostbacks until the air becomes thin and frigid, and then she dives. 

She plummets toward the rocky face of the mountain, determinedly toward nothing at all. She is not hunting tonight. Her prey has already eluded her and she knows it is her own doing. She _must_ be going ‘soft.’ The rush of her freefall leaves her more light-headed than usual, but still, she swoops up just in time, before everything goes black, before she smashes into the cliff. She finds another thermal and does it again and again, until her hollow bones are exhausted and her lungs refuse to fill themselves with anymore bitter frozen air and she craves the warmth of her own skin and a _real_ bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably should've been the end of the last chapter. Which is why it's so short.


	6. Rooting Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan pursues knowledge. Blackwall comes to terms with the fact that she knows at least _part_ of his secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another NSFW chapter...sexual intercourse (these two finally bone!)

They manage to avoid each other entirely for the next week and a half. He and Sera and Bull accompany the Inquisitor to the Storm Coast, and Morrigan busies herself with research. Leliana has suggested she might be able to coax more out of Fiona regarding her time with the Wardens, so she consults with the _former_ Grand Enchanter, until she begins asking questions about the King of Ferelden -- _Were you and King Alistair close during the Blight?_ By the end of it, they _might_ have begrudgingly conceded to friendship. _How did both he and the Hero of Ferelden survive slaying an Archdemon?_ ‘Twas a miracle. Truly. _Are you still in contact with him?_ No.

It goes on and on like this, until both women tire of the continuous conversational maneuvering and avoidances. Blackwall could certainly learn a thing or two from her, Morrigan muses, when Fiona politely excuses herself from the conversation altogether.

So Morrigan turns her search for knowledge toward something less personal -- the _official_ reason she was recruited, to aid the Inquisition in their efforts to uncover and better understand the arcane methods by which Corypheus plans to ‘make himself a god.’ Leliana has already shared the reports of his agents looting ancient ruins to the south in search of elven artifacts. And she has always had her suspicions that the Eluvians are not merely a sanctuary, but a ‘network’ which could be used to travel through the spaces in-between this world and the Fade, if only one knew where the other mirrors were and how to unlock them. _Ambassador_ Briala all but confirmed this, but was unwilling to give any more information, not that Morrigan could blame her. She saw what Celene put her and her people through during her time at court in Orlais.

Still, she imagines Corypheus wishes to make use of the ancient network, and he may have more of the missing pieces than she does. So she sees to it that Kieran is under the tutelage of the most-qualified mages at Skyhold, which, to her dismay, happen to include the flashy Tevinter Altus who’s been acting far too interested in her work ever since he overheard her ask the librarian where to find information about “Tevinter mirror travel.” She gets Leliana’s reassurances that Kieran will be looked after and kept safe, before flying off to investigate the ruins in the Arbor Wilds herself.

...

Blackwall returns from the Storm Coast with the Inquisitor and their entourage. After debriefing with their advisors, he and Bull and Sera immediately head to the Herald’s Rest to join the Chargers for some much-deserved drinks. It’s hardly a celebratory mood, as the Chargers settle into their various places around the tavern, perhaps more aware than ever how close they were to not returning from this latest mission together. Bull may have saved his men, and there’s no doubt that they’re grateful, but the consequences of this decision have clearly been weighing heavily on him, too, judging by his uncharacteristic reservedness.

Sera, meanwhile, keeps staring wistfully at the new arcanist from Orzammar who has been sitting at the fire, chatting excitedly with Dorian in increasingly animated gestures about Maker-knows-what kind of sorcery. And with a disgruntled huff, she finally breaks the tension that has settled between the three of them. It’s too much. Too heavy for her to be sitting with two of her best friends at the bar and not laughing about tits or saying the things that everyone is thinking about, anyway. “Must be nice to get rid of those Ben-Harseholes, yeah?”

“You mean getting exiled from my people and declared Tal-Vashoth?” Bull sighs. “Yeah, I should make a cake.”

“Pfffft...if you want a cake, ask your cute ginger barmaid to make you one. Or maybe she’ll just sit on yer face to cheer you up. It’s not like you were really acting like one of ‘em anyway.”

Blackwall snorts into his ale.

But Bull just stares down at the flagon of marass-lok in front of him. “Without the Qun…” 

“What?” Sera asks, when he trails off.

“Nevermind...” He shakes his head, smiling half-heartedly. “Just realized who I was talking to.”

“You worried you won’t know how to act now or something?”

“Not with you around to kick my ass when I need it. Still stings a bit, though.”

Sera loops her arm around his, squeezing his bulky upper arm tight in the crook of her elbow, then reaches in front of him and takes a swig from his mug. She makes a disgusted face before slamming it down and glancing back over her shoulder at the little dwarf who seems to have caught her eye yet again.

“Go on…” Bull nudges her with his hip as Dorian makes his exit for the evening with a strange glance toward Bull, leaving Dagna alone by the fire. “She’s been waiting for you to make a move all night.”

“Oh, shush it!” She swats him on the arm, and it makes such a loud slapping noise that almost all who remain in the tavern turn to look at them for a moment.

Sera lowers her voice, shoves her whole face between him and Blackwall, and whispers, “But also, do you think she’d be into it? Into _me_ , I mean. A dwarf. A real smart one. And she’s cute, right? But with _me_? What d’you suppose _we’d_ have to talk about?”

“You could offer to take her on up to your little cubby hole and show her your perch?” Blackwall suggests.

Sera gives him an utterly incredulous look. “Is that _really_ how you do things?” She lowers the pitch of her voice and pokes out her lower lip. ”Oh, _hi_ , I’m Blackwall...wanna come see my hayloft?”

“Sometimes, people just appear there to solicit me…” he murmurs, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

“You’re about to miss your chance." Bull nods their attention back toward Dagna as she glances around the emptying tavern and then begins to make her way toward the door.

“Aw, shite…” Sera hisses, her hands and feet and every part of her bouncing fretfully in place.

“Good luck!” Bull laughs, slapping her on the back of the shoulder, giving her a little boost across the tavern.

Blackwall chuckles and Bull shakes his head fondly, before returning to his previous reticence.

After a few more sips of ale, Blackwall clears his throat. “It's a difficult thing you've done, turning your back on one life to keep living another. You _could_ look at it as opening a way forward, not closing the way back.”

“Thanks…” Bull peers curiously at Blackwall. “Weird advice, but it’s the thought that counts, I guess.”

“And you’ve still got the Chargers.”

“Yeah, I think I'm good.” Bull stands up and stretches, leaving half his drink and a few extra coppers. “Just tired.”

Blackwall nods a silent farewell to him, and then he finds himself alone at the bar. He takes a deep breath. So far, he’s seen no sign of the Witch since they returned from the Storm Coast. It’s possible she’s left the fortress, disappeared to go pursue other interests and unsuspecting dance partners. _Good_ , he thinks, even as an unwelcome hint of regret at their last parting wedges itself _somewhere_ inside of him.

He slides a hand inside his pocket and runs a thumb over the metal relief of the Warden-Constable’s badge. He’s never been one to keep mementos. Rituals, sure -- the flowers for Liddy, the particular way he removes and cleans his armor and sword just so every night, this whole...Warden charade. There’s meaning to be found in doing things repeatedly and doing them right. But he’s never really understood the sentimentality some people place in objects or tokens. He didn’t really have a choice, though, when the Inquisitor found the badge and handed it to him. “Your badge!” they’d said and he stammered out some kind of response and pretended to be grateful.

But it’s been four days, and for some reason, he’s held onto it. And he can’t seem to stop touching it in spite of the fact that it feels like it is burning a hole straight through him. _Warden_ Gordon Blackwall...he died there on the Storm Coast. The lucky bastard. It should’ve been _him_ that died, but Blackwall, the idiot, had thought he’d seen something worth sacrificing himself for in him. Why should one man’s death have changed him when so many others before had only left him...numb?

He looks up to see Sera and Dagna finally heading upstairs, together, in a fit of giggles. Sera gives him a double thumbs-up and a wink as Dagna blushes behind her. _Good for them_. _They_ deserve some fun. But him? He just sits there, staring into his beer, fondling the badge, stewing in his self-loathing as the rest of the tavern empties for the night.

"’Tis not surprising that I would find you here…”

He clenches his fist around the badge and the sharp corners cut into his palm. He knows her voice too well. It haunts his dreams, after all. A better man would call them nightmares, but... _well_. There it is.

Anyway, he certainly doesn’t need to turn around to see that the Witch of the Wilds has finally deigned to grace the tavern with her presence, like an unkindness of ravens swooping in and bringing the chill from the frigid night with them. It’s late, and there’s nobody else conscious in the tavern left to witness it but him and Old Cabot, who has disappeared into the back for a smoke or a nap or Maker-knows-what. At any rate, _he_ certainly won’t be pleased to see a new customer has just walked in at this hour.

“What is it, Witch?” Blackwall pulls his hand out of his pocket and curls it around his mug of ale, lifting it up, swirling it around, trying to look completely unmoved by her arrival.

Morrigan narrows her eyes at him, an amused quirk at the edge of her lips, and he eventually raises his mug to his own lips to take a swig in one last attempt to seem disinterested.

”My previous offer still stands, _Warden_...”

Blackwall nearly chokes on his ale, betraying the entire ruse as he tries to mask his surprised sputtering.

“But I _suppose_ we have some matters to discuss,” she drawls.

“I have nothing to discuss with you,” he blurts out between coughs.

Morrigan rolls her eyes and sits down next to him. She’s wearing a heavy velvet-lined cloak, and suede boots caked in mud from somewhere far away, as the Frostbacks have been covered in at least six feet of snow for nearly a month now. She’s been traveling, too, it seems, and there’s a hint of weariness to her that he’s never seen before, in the slight hunch of her shoulders, the resigned heave of her chest as she plants herself on the stool, and it touches him unexpectedly. He didn’t realize witches could actually feel things like that. Then again, maybe it’s a trick.

Cabot emerges from the back with a sour look on his face, and Blackwall isn’t sure if he’s more relieved or annoyed at the reminder that he’s not alone with the witch.

“What’ll it be for ya?” the dwarf asks Morrigan while side-eyeing Blackwall, who takes another hurried gulp of his ale.

“A small glass?”

“Of what?”

“Just the _glass_ , please…”

Cabot rolls his eyes, giving the witch a run for her money in performative disdain, and sighs dramatically before heading back into the storeroom. They hear the sounds of crates being moved, the jostling of barrels, some colorful Dwarven curses, and the tinkling of glass, but he eventually returns bearing a little crystal goblet, probably intended for Antivan port or something similarly fancy. He is kind enough to blow the dust off of it before slamming it down on the bar in front of her. There’s a chance his disdain is not _entirely_ performative.

Morrigan smiles obligatorily, and slides him a few coppers for his trouble, which he begrudgingly takes before heading back into the storeroom with a grunt.

She pulls a flask from a pouch at her waist and pours a dark, syrupy liquid into the glass.

“What is _that_?” Blackwall asks as she takes a sip, realizing after he asks that he might not want to know the answer. It sticks to the sides of the cup like congealed ichor. He _imagines_ it’s what a Joining chalice probably looks like...except in miniature.

“Fortified Ritewine.”

“Why would _anyone_ \-- “

She glances sideways at him, then takes another sip. “It reminds me of someone who was rather… _important_ to me.”

She closes her eyes and throws back the last few sips in one go, her nostrils curling up slightly as she swallows it down. She sets the glass down gently onto the bar with a little sigh.

“ _You_ are not him.”

“No? I don’t suppose I am.”

“ _You_ are not even a Warden.”

He puffs up his chest in offense, looking utterly ridiculous now, and it would make her laugh if it didn’t make her so damn frustrated. He’s had a week and a half to digest her confession, and yet...

“I don’t know what you _think_ you know, but…”

“Oh tut tut tuh-tuh tut…” she chirps at him. “I strongly advise you to stop lying...to _me_ , at least.”

"Is that a _threat_ , Witch?”

“No, you blustery fool! It’s -- _ugh_!” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “How might I prove to you that your secret is safe...that _I_ am to be _trusted_?”

He stares back down into the last dregs of his ale, picking it back up and swirling it around again, trying to buy some time to...think. To figure out how much to tell her. How much she already knows.

"I _assure_ you I have no overly compelling reason to tell anyone, and contrary to what _you_ might think of me, I do not seek to extort you.”

He still can't tell if that's meant to be a threat or a promise. But it definitely shouldn't be making him feel like _this_. Confused. Intimidated. Fucking _aroused_ …? He's been a broken man for most of his life, but just how low can a man go before the world swallows him up or the Maker strikes him down once and for all? Not that he'd be deserving of such a mercy.

"I'm not worried," he grumbles, convincing neither of them.

“I will admit that at first, I entertained some small foolish hope that you had perhaps found some kind of ‘cure’ for the Taint -- ’tis a cause that matters to me and those who are dear to me -- but it became quite clear that you had very little actual knowledge of the Wardens, so I surmised that you must never have been one in the first place.”

“I _was_ being recruited. By a Warden. A real one.” He pulls out the Warden-Constable’s badge. “This was his…”

“Ah, yes. So that explains the discrepancy in age…”

“What?”

“The Wardens _do_ keep records of those who join the Order, you know.”

His eyes widen in panicked realization. Who _else_ might have gone looking? Surely, the Spymaster could have easily had other people looking into it as well.

“Do not fret…” Morrigan waves her hand. “I took care of it.”

Blackwall doesn’t know what that means. Doesn’t want to even acknowledge it. Why would she go through all the trouble of rooting around in Warden business not to expose him? What reason could she possibly have for...for _helping_ him?

“So tell me...what happened to the _real_ Gordon Blackwall? You do not strike me as someone who would kill a man just to steal his identity.”

He almost laughs at that, but he’s able to stop himself. She truly has no idea who he _really_ is, does she? Only who he isn’t. Well, that’s better, he supposes. He can work with that.

“He was beginning to hear it, he said. The Calling, or whatever it is that happens to ‘em when their mind starts to go. We were ambushed by a group of Darkspawn, and he told me to run, and then he stayed to fight ‘em off long enough to let me escape…”

Blackwall trails off and Morrigan fidgets with the little glass in front of her, waiting for him to finish.

“It should’ve been _me_ fighting those monsters, dying to protect a good man. I had no choice but to try and become one myself, in his honor.”

“That is all very noble and good. But why didn’t you find another Warden to complete your Joining?”

“I didn’t know what he saw in me...what if the Order rejected me? It was easier then for me to just...start fresh as somebody else and forget the no-good scoundrel I had become.”

“Usually, that’s exactly the kind of person the Wardens are looking for.” Morrigan smirks, and her eyes drift off to somewhere else entirely.

“What about you?” Blackwall asks, hoping to shove some of this discomfort and vulnerability he’s feeling back onto her. “And the Hero of Ferelden? There’s rumors there, too, y’know…”

“I am well aware of the rumors, most of them false…”

“But he _is_ your boy’s father, yeah?”

“Yes,” she muses. “He was a good father, and a good partner. And the best friend I’ve ever had. For a time, we had respite, as a family, but only for a time. He started to hear the Calling, too. Like _your_ Warden. Except there was no heroic death for him. _We_ were perfectly capable of defending ourselves against Darkspawn.”

Blackwall ignores the slight. “So what? He just...left? Or _you_ left him?”

Morrigan turns back to look at him, her eyes flashing fierce and golden and furious. “You ask that as if you might have come up with a better solution?”

“No...I -- “

“The Calling,” she continues brusquely, “is the song of an Archdemon. It infiltrates their mind, their blood, their very _soul_ if one is to believe in such a thing. You have seen what it does to them. At Adamant, yes? I assure you our decision to part ways was _not_ made lightly.”

“My apologies.”

“Yes.”

“So then…”

“Quite.”

They sit there, each staring into their empty glasses, until Morrigan takes a deep breath and breaks the heavy silence. “Well...now that all of _that_ is out of the way, I still wish for you to take me to your bed.”

“Er…you’ve seen I don’t really have a _bed_. Not in the conventional sense.”

Morrigan hastily pulls her flask back out and refills the tiny goblet. She drinks it all down in one gulp this time, then sighs. “Please just humor me for the evening and pretend that you are at least _partially_ civilized?”

"What do you _really_ want?”

"Oh. I _thought_ I was being rather clear. But I had not realized how your _guilt_ and your lies had eroded your ability to know when a woman simply wants to sleep with you." She glances pointedly at the mug in front of him. “Or perhaps ‘tis the drink? Should I let you sober up a bit first before propositioning you again?”

Blackwall raises his eyebrows. Another challenge from the witch. One he _knows_ he has no business accepting.

“Yes or no? I am no demon…I am not going to trick you into it or cast some sort of spell over you." 

"Why, though?" he asks.

"Because it is something I happen to enjoy more with a _willing_ partner. Along with sarcastic banter, stimulating conversation. And tea, on occasion.” 

"No, I mean...why would you _want_ to...with _me_? Surely, there are others who would have you.”

Morrigan lets out one last exasperated groan. "Very well, then. Good night, _Warden_."

She leaves a few more coppers next to the empty glass for Cabot and stands up to leave.

“Wait!” he blurts out as she heads toward the door. "My real name is Rainier. _Thom_ Rainier." 

She turns slowly back around to face him. "I do not recall asking…" 

But she looks intrigued, and she’s no longer walking away from him. He’s not sure how he feels about that, only that it feels like there’s suddenly a lot less room in his breeches. Morrigan’s eyes flick down towards his lap, and she grins like a dragon eyeing its prey.

"Just thought you should know…" he shrugs. 

"You really _do_ want someone to run and tattle on you, don’t you?”

"Maybe I just want you to know what to cry out as I scratch whatever itch has got your knickers all twisted into knots.”

“You’re assuming I’m wearing any...” Morrigan smirks.

He stands up and stalks over to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her in tight against him. “ _This_ what you want, lass?” he rasps into her neck, his beard dragging against her collarbone, reeking of ale and a week and a half of travel.

She tries to swallow down the taste of her Warden’s ritewine as his arousal presses through the layers of clothing between them. She pushes lightly back against his chest, her palm flat, her other hand trailing slowly up his arm until it comes to rest on his shoulder. "Is this another dance? I hear no music.”

"Your lead this time, m'lady…" He ducks his head obligingly, but he’s still got his arm wrapped so tightly around her that she can hardly seem to catch her breath -- what room she has left in her lungs has already become filled up with him.

Her fingers slide down his chest to his waist and he inhales sharply as she reaches down into his breeches and her nails graze bare skin just under his belly. At least now they’re _both_ breathless.

“Not _here_ …” He pulls her toward the nearest door, whether it’s the privy or a closet or someone else’s room, he doesn’t bother to check, and he doesn’t really care. So long as he can get her _somewhere_ that he can prop her up against something and finally fuck her so she’ll leave him alone and stop with the witchy head games.

It turns out to be the entrance to the root cellar, but neither of them let go of each other as they stumble all the way down the old rickety stairs. She still somehow manages to get his pants undone and off of his hips before their feet even hit the dirt floor, and he hoists her up on top of a stack of grain sacks, leaning into her with a primal grunt. 

“Didn’t take _you_ for someone who’d be willing to root around in a filthy cellar,” he mutters against her neck.

“‘Tis an upgrade from your hay loft, Warden.” She drapes her arms over his shoulders and pulls him closer, pressing her lips to his, the sweet and bitter taste of her former lover’s brew still lingering there to remind them both _exactly_ who he isn’t.

He turns his head abruptly away from the kiss. Kissing hadn’t been a part of his plan this time. Not now that she’s made it clear what this is _really_ about.

But now that she knows...“It’s _Thom_ ,” he reminds her, his hot breath and his lips and his facial hair all brushing against her cheek. 

“Right. Thom, then,” she huffs impatiently. She doesn’t care. And he supposes that’s all well and good.

She rakes her fingers through his hair and wraps her hand around the back of his neck and pulls him back into another kiss. Her tongue pushes past his lips and roves urgently over his teeth until he finally opens his mouth up and lets her in with a sort of guttural hiss.

He reaches both hands down and yanks her leggings past her knees and she kicks one leg the rest of the way out of them. He slides rough, warm hands along bare skin up and under her leather skirting, and pulls her legs around him.

“You weren’t kidding, eh?” Blackwall notes as his cock grazes her naked cunt. “No fancy smalls this time…” 

“Disappointed?” Morrigan asks. “They seemed to have given you a bit of trouble last time.” She digs her nails into his shoulders and uses his upper body as leverage while she wraps her legs tighter around his waist and tries to pull his sturdy hips forward.

But Blackwall shakes his head. “I’ll have you know, I was _quite_ an expert at removing lacy underthings in my prime.” 

She is relieved to see that his eyes are twinkling with mischief and desire instead of panic this time. His eyes and his beard seem to wrinkle up in self-satisfied amusement and his cock twitches against her inner thigh as it slips past her entrance yet again in spite of her desperate maneuvering.

“Well, at least you have _that_.” She throws her arms around his torso and attempts to heave him into position on top of her with a little grunt.

Blackwall snorts. Then he rears back with a more focused and determined look, and finally presses himself up and into her, all her previous fretful undulations superseded by a single jerk of his hips.

She braces herself against the dusty grain sacks as he spreads her further apart, hoisting her legs high up over his shoulders, and sinking deeper inside of her.

“Thom _mmm_ …” she moans, mockingly at first, he knows. But as he thrusts into her again, she extends the final consonant into a sort of delicious hum, testing out the feel of it on her tongue, letting it reverberate in her mouth and back into her throat as she leans back to further enjoy his efforts. Well, of course she cares _now_.

The sound of his old name. His _real_ name. Spoken like _that_ in a place like _this_. It awakens something within him. Something he’s been trying hard to forget. To ignore. To escape. But he can’t. He knows he can’t. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to face the consequences for what he’s done, what he’s left behind, what he’s stolen. But until then... 

“Fuck me, Thom.”

So he does.


End file.
